


Six Impossible Things

by irisbleufic



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even with the wide world before her, how long can Alice <i>truly</i> stay away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six Impossible Things

**Author's Note:**

> Although it wasn't what I'd call brilliant, Burton's _Alice_ was, nonetheless, an enjoyable film (better than I expected it would be, at any rate). The Hatter's characterization was quite unexpected, delightfully, so hats off to Depp for that. Here, I'm employing my usual trick of wondering what happens after the curtain closes.

**1.**

This time, Tarrant thinks, it _is_ good to be working at his trade again. 

Her Majesty the White Queen possesses an exquisite head, small and stately and perfectly proportioned. His old quarters in the palace have been lavishly restored, stocked with every last oddment he could possibly wish: buttons, pins, and fancies; fabric, ribbons, and lace. Each and every painstaking creation is met with her reflection's serene, dark-eyed approval.

Oh, Her Majesty is _gracious_ , nothing like her hideous, huge-headed sister. That beast had quite got what she deserved.

But Mirana is not _sublime_. No, she is not even perfect.

Her hair is not the color of dawn's pale light reflected off a rockinghorsefly's delicate wings. Her eyes are not as changeable as quicksilver, one moment playfully bright, the next, steely and keen as new scissor-blades. She is not blunt in all the right places and graceful in all the wrong ones. She is not even _slightly_ disagreeable, which is disappointing.

Tarrant pins a stray ribbon-end in place, studying the hat with a wistful frown.

However kind or good at queening, Her Majesty is _not_ Alice.

 

**2.**

Alice spends the first weeks of her journey ill in the bowels of the ship, scarcely able to drag herself up to the deck without help. On the rare days that she does see sunlight, Absolem is never far away, lit upon the nearest rope or plank or piece of rigging. His presence comforts her. She can almost hear his voice in her head.

_You've strayed far this time, dear girl. Somebody's got to look after you._

After a month, it becomes clear that her malady may be more than seasickness. Her fits of delirium worsen, and there are murmurings amongst the crew about bad water and grog running out. Alice is attended by the only other woman on the ship, the cook's apprentice, who brings her tea and croons to her in a soft Scottish accent.

She wakes from fever dreams with the girl's cool hand on her forehead and the Hatter's eyes burning in her memory, an after-image of despairing, yet stubborn hope. Her nostrils fill with the smell of her condition, of close, cramped quarters and stale bedclothes. She turns her face into the girl's sauce-stained skirts, where she catches the faintest whiff of saffron and spice. Black tea from Ceylon. The bergamot of fine Earl Grey. Scents she knows by heart, because she caught all of them each time she was near him, each and _every_ time. Maddening, to know she hadn't got close _enough_.

“You smell like someone I once knew,” murmurs Alice, squeezing her eyes shut again.

“A lady-friend, Miss, or a gentleman?” asks the cook's apprentice, stroking her hair.

Alice feels the air stir at her cheek, the faintest brush of a butterfly's wing.

 _Let me rephrase that: somebody's got to look after you_ for _him._

“A gentleman,” sighs Alice, resigned. “The only man for me.”

 

**3.**

“Your Majesty requires my presence?” Tarrant asks, bowing before the throne.

The Queen smiles at him with heartbreaking benevolence. The object lying in her snow-crisp lap is ominous, the worn vellum scroll open to a section that Tarrant has never seen before. Unable to restrain himself, he steps forward, peering curiously down at it. The Queen holds it out to him, urging him to take it. 

“A choice lies ahead of you," she says.

The ancient ink drawing stirs something in him: a memory that never happened. No, wait—it's an image he's seen somewhere before, or he's at least seen something similar, and it takes him a moment to realize where. In his father's possession, there had been an old deck of cards that his ancestors had supposedly brought from the world above long ago. The picture in the Oraculum is, unquestionably, of him: the ribbons trailing down from the figure's hat are unmistakeable. Over his shoulder, he bears a walking-stick with a bundle tied at the end. A familiar dog, as if it had, until that point, been trailing after him, turns uncertainly in the opposite direction.

“Ah,” says Tarrant, darkly. “The Fool.”

“This is no ill omen,” replies the Queen, taking the scroll from him. She rolls with her right hand and unscrolls with her left, until Tarrant can see the scene that follows.

Alice's hair tumbles about them both, concealing whatever is happening beneath it.

 

**4.**

Alice recovers long before they make port at Hong Kong, although she is left feeling weak and drained, even empty. Her father's company will establish headquarters here in preparation for striking out into China's interior. She has been studying treatises on the trade routes of old, reading of the Silk Road's many wonders. She would like to retrace it, preferably with a companion who knows a great deal about tea.

By night, in her over-lavish bed at the Embassy, Alice dreams of Underland in fits and snatches. On the first night, she follows Absolem's voice into the darkness, only to find him hovering in the garden on the other side. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are there, of course, waiting to greet her. She's so glad to see them she could cry.

Another night, she dreams of playing chess with McTwisp. He asks after her health, which she admits has seen better days, and tells her that Underland's commerce is much improved under the White Queen's dominion. He trounces her soundly, and she wakes before they can start a second match, still clutching one tiny black pawn.

Setting up the company offices is a tedious process, not least because translators are required. Alice slumps at her desk and shuffles through each endless stack of papers again, wondering if she ought to just start learning Chinese.

That night, Mallymkun spends ten minutes attempting to stick Alice's foot with her sword before Alice manages to calm her down. She's angry because Alice has been away so long, it would seem. Everyone misses her. Even _Mallymkun_ misses her. Most of all, though, the Hatter misses her. She doesn't need to be told twice.

Alice wakes with tears in her eyes, and she doesn't speak to anyone at breakfast.

That day proves particularly exhausting, but they settle on a second office location nearer to the docks. The deal takes several hours to close, as they are, part and parcel, invited to a lavish feast of local delicacies and endless cups of tea. They'll spend a few more weeks in Hong Kong outfitting the offices, and then they'll re-provision the ship and return to London. Alice can scarcely stomach her disappointment, but along with it comes a curious sort of relief.

That night, sleep comes quickly. She falls faster than she ever has before.

She lands hard in a clump of tall grass, the wind knocked out of her. Struggling to her feet, she finds that she is neither too small, nor too tall—just right, in fact. She's barefoot, still in her night-dress, and all is quiet and still in the Underland dusk. She spots a broken-down windmill in the distance and begins to walk. 

When she finally rounds the crumbling structure, one hand lifting a shred of broken sail in order to duck under it, she can see that the tea party is just where she left it. 

But only one guest is there.

“I come here at night, sometimes,” says Tarrant, softly, his lowered eyes fixed on his teacup as she approaches. “The others stopped coming with me.”

Alice lays a hand on his shoulder. She can't keep her fingers from trembling as she leans low and tilts his chin up with the other. His hat falls back as he raises his head, landing with a soft _thump_ in the grass at Alice's feet.

“I'm here now,” she says, offering him a hopeful smile.

They kiss because it's the only thing left for them in any world to do. Alice guides his pin-callused hands to her waist and he draws her down, tasting her with a hunger normally reserved for the rarest of teas. She wonders if she still tastes of Lapsang Souchong, pine and gunpowder, no sweetness at all as she straddles him, struggling for balance. He pulls her in close, eyes blazing green, then yellow, shifting, doubting. She draws her night-dress up about her hips and touches her lips to his.

“My mother and sister tried to marry me off to somebody wretched,” she whispers. “But I simply wouldn't have it. Do you have any idea why?”

Tarrant shakes his head sadly and touches her cheek. He's distracted by Alice's hands, which have worked their way past his waistcoat and shirt to the warm skin beneath. She's careful not to strain the stitching, which he's doubtless done himself.

“It's an easy riddle,” Alice says when the kiss ends. “He wasn't the man for me.”

“Do you know what today is?” Tarrant asks, his breath coming shallow and fast

“No,” Alice admits, her voice faltering as she finds him ready.

“Ours,” he gasps, and so it is.

Afterward, they lie together in the grass, watching the faint stars fade into morning. Alice feels a lassitude creep over her, the terrible momentum of departure. She clings to Tarrant as fiercely as she's able, but it's almost superfluous, what when he's holding her so tightly in return. Her thoughts begin to drift as her eyelids grow heavy. As they huddle close under his coat, he turns his face into the tangle of her hair.

“Don't leave me again,” he implores her, softly, his voice rough.

“I can't stay,” Alice whispers, finding speech difficult. “Not yet. There's something I need to finish. My father's company. We expanded to Hong Kong, there's so much...”

“Muchness,” Tarrant finishes for her, sounding drowsy. “So much more than before.”

Alice can only nod, pressing her nose into the hollow of his throat. Sweat. Clove.

“In which case, I shall keep it for you.” He pauses, growing tense. “Alice...?”

“Tarrant,” she whispers. Not _Hatter_ , but his name. She's a thousand miles away.

Alice wakes to a twinge of pain and an empty bed, finding a rust-colored stain on her thigh. Her night-dress lies discarded on the floor. As she bends to collect it and clutches it to her chest, a flash of blue at the window catches her eye.

 _Silly girl_ , Absolem says inside her head. _This cannot be undone_.

“Nor would I wish it to be,” she answers, but the butterfly is already gone.

 

**5.**

“This is the last of it,” murmurs the Queen, proffering the purple-tinted vial between dainty thumb and forefinger. “As I did with Alice, I advise you to choose wisely.”

“Madam,” says Tarrant, with all the dignity he can muster in spite of the pitifully drab garb he has donned, “I believe that the choice is already made.” Only his beloved hat remains. He uncorks the stuff and gives it a sniff, for the briefest of moments reeling.

“I will miss you, old friend,” says the Queen, smiling—ever and _always_ smiling.

Before his mind can flit off in distraction, Tarrant downs the stuff with a shudder.

“I'll send you hats!” he shouts as Underland fades to white, swallowing the Queen entire. “Kilts! Fezzes! And tea all the way from China!”

A moment later, he's standing in a dingy, damp street in front of a door he doesn't recognize. There are no keys lying about or elixirs with helpful tags attached. But there _is_ a huge brass knocker, and whatever people may say about him, he's not so mad as _not_ to know what to do with it. He lifts it and raps three times.

The door opens to reveal her standing there, mouth half-open in amazement.

“Your Queen, I hear,” he says humbly, “is in sore need of hatting.”

“That can wait,” Alice replies, pulling him inside. “I need you more.”

 

**6.**

During months when the running of the company does not demand her presence and Tarrant's constant stream of customers seems to wane, they travel. Alice takes him to Hong Kong first, to show him where her journey started.

“I didn't get to finish,” she explains. “Not quite. We have connections in several major cities, but there are a thousand towns and villages we've left unexplored.”

“That simply won't do,” Tarrant says. “That's an awful lot of tea left untasted.”

When they tire of tasting and meeting new faces, they sleep. They find quiet spaces in the vast expanse of the Silk Road's strange landscape that become theirs alone, places where it's possible to vanish without a trace if the right blue butterfly or white rabbit or disembodied feline smile appear to lead you off the beaten track.

The White Queen welcomes their visits with open arms. She holds festivities in their honor, dances and garden parties and banquets, but never once has anyone implored them to stay. Alice knows that, one day, the time will come. Tarrant hopes for it continually, she knows, but he hardly seems unhappy. Just as Underland holds wonders for her, so her world holds marvels for him.

Most of all, though, they are for each other: the most wondrous impossibility of all.


	2. Practice Makes Perfect

Alice wakes to the smell of Keemun laced with rose petals and orange peel. 

She stretches languidly, savoring the feel of worn cotton sheets against her bare skin, and rolls over onto her stomach. Tarrant has thrown on one of her dressing gowns—curiously charming, if rather ill-fitting—and donned his hat, which had got tossed halfway across the room in their rush to undress each other a little over two hours before. He kneels before the bedside table, his attention fixed upon the tea tray that he's brought up from the kitchen, contemplating Alice's sugar bowl with spoon in hand.

"I have noted with some interest your wardrobe's general lack of corsetry," he murmurs, sneaking a bashful sidelong glance at her. " _Naughty_. Likewise, your collection of stockings is lacking. At least I shall always be able to see your legs."

Alice wriggles until the sheets are down far enough that she can kick them off.

"You can see my legs any time you like. Three lumps, please," she adds.

Tarrant's eyes glaze over for a few seconds, as if he's distracted by the swishing of her ankles, but he recovers himself quickly, scooping three lumps of sugar into her cup and four into his own. As he stirs each one briskly, Alice can't help but note, just as she had earlier, that his hands look peculiar without their usual accoutrements and bandages. Life under Mirana's rule has been good to him, leaving only faint scars. Alice restrains the urge to reach out and draw his index finger to her mouth.

"One for you," he says, offering her the cup into which he'd put four, "and one for me." He rises with his cup cradled carefully in both hands and walks around to the other side of the bed, where he props up one of the pillows and settles down beside Alice. She turns her head to look at him, taking a sip of her tea. _Perfect_.

"I brought it all the way from Hong Kong," she tells Tarrant, carefully shifting into a sitting position so that she can lean against him. "I still haven't got the knack for brewing a perfect cup, but you've done a whole pot on your first try. It's hardly fair."

Tarrant _tsks_ at her, downing half his cup in one gulp. "I've met my fair _share_ of teas, young lady, over time—and yes, I know I've made a rhyme. If you listen closely enough, the leaves tell you precisely how to brew them." He pauses for a moment, reaching out to wistfully stroke Alice's hair. "Tell me, how old _are_ you?"

"I shall be twenty-one in two months' time," she answers, balancing her teacup on her knees. "And what about you? I don't think I've ever asked. Not that it matters."

Tarrant's fiery eyebrows knit in contemplation. "Well, you see—last I counted, I was perhaps thirty-six. But years keep sneaking away every once and a while, the devilish things! Once, not that long ago, I could have sworn I was only thirty-two. Or twenty-nine. But they always come back in the end. Yes. They always return to haunt you."

Alice sets her almost-empty teacup aside on the tray, twisting sideways against him so that she can drape one leg across his lap. "You needn't worry about it," she says softly in his ear. " _I'm_ not counting. Besides, you've looked exactly the same for as long as I can remember." Which isn't exactly true, not anymore: there's the matter of his hands, which look healthier, and his hair, which has unquestionably got longer.

"In which case, I fear you shall tire of me rather quickly," he sighs, dropping his own empty cup on the floor. "Especially since I haven't the faintest idea why a raven is like a writing desk, or whether or not I'm the one who has dreamed up _you_."

Alice slips one hand beneath the dressing gown and pinches Tarrant's hip. _Hard_. He yelps and tries to roll off the bed, but Alice keeps him exactly where she is, adding both arms to the leg she's got wrapped around him. She makes a big show of pinching herself in the same spot, shivering slightly when Tarrant grabs her wrist.

"Stop that!" he scolds. "Those scars on your arm are quite enough, thank you."

Alice eyes what's left of the wounds once inflicted by the Bandersnatch and shrugs. "I'm quite pleased that they scarred, actually. I've come to regard them as a badge of honor. Even a token of friendship, though that probably sounds quite mad."

Tarrant strokes the marks with his rough fingertips, as if he'd gladly erase them.

"You ought to have let Chess tend them," he says, bending to kiss each scar in turn. "The point is that the Bandersnatch hurt you, which thought I can bear no more than the knowledge that I hurt you, too. Quite badly, I think."

Alice gives him a questioning look, using her elbow to tilt his head up. "When?"

Tarrant lowers his eyes, his pale cheeks turning faintly pink.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Alice mutters. "It was hardly as bad as all that. And your coat was _very_ warm. My bed at the Embassy felt like ice by comparison. It was wretched."

"Your bed here is _nothing_ like ice," says Tarrant, lowering his head to kiss between her breasts. "It is entirely like freshly baked scones. Or tea-cakes with sultanas."

Alice blushes, sweeping off his hat. "Whatever gave you such a wicked idea?"

Tarrant tweaks her right nipple, his face buried lower now, at her navel. He licks a warm streak down her belly, leaving a soft kiss between her legs.

Alice squirms and tugs impatiently at the dressing gown. "You'll stretch it if you wear it any longer! Then, I shan't be able to wear it at all. I'll have to wander about naked."

Reluctantly, Tarrant raises his head and blinks at her, as if he's lost focus again.

"One by one, I'll stretch them all," he vows, his voice dark with a familiar burr.

Alice cradles his face between her palms. " _Tarrant_ ," she whispers.

He blinks again, as if seeing where he is for the first time, and then looks up at her, vaguely afraid. "Writing desk," he says under his breath. "Raven. I mean—scones. _No_. I'm fine." He frowns. "Alice, if I'm dreaming, then that means none of this is—"

"Shhh," she soothes him. "It's all real. But at least now you know how I felt."

"It's a terrible feeling," he admits, turning his face in order to kiss her palm. "The part where one thinks one is dreaming, I mean. The rest of it is exquisite. Impossible."

"Only if you believe it is," Alice says, and hauls Tarrant up for a kiss.

She's content to lie back this time and let him do what he will, the urgency of her fever largely spent. Much though she loves looking down on him as her hair falls around them like a curtain, a canopy to shield them from prying eyes, she finds new wonder in being able to see his features clearly, undimmed by the shadow she casts. He breathes her name in moans and half-whispers, and when he seems to drift—for they're moving slowly, so _very_ slowly this time, no sign of their usual hurry—she finds that closing him in a firm, insistent grip is enough to remind him of the task at hand.

"You should take me now," Alice gasps in Tarrant's ear, surprised at her own boldness.

"That's an excellent idea," he agrees, far too capable of speech for Alice's liking.

There is still some pain, just as there was earlier, but Alice isn't about to let him know it. He kisses her deeply, as if he hopes it might serve as a distraction, but, ever impatient, Alice locks her ankles at the small of his back, forcing his careful thrust forward into something fiercer, more urgent. His cry is wordless. _Perfect_.

It lasts longer this time, too, which Alice had not thought possible. She falls first, trembling, wracked with pleasure, unable even to push his name past her lips. _Not fair_ , she thinks, but he's falling after her now, their bodies slicked with sweat, limbs entangled, and the dressing gown decidedly ripped along one shoulder seem where Alice bunched her fist in it too tightly. They finally collapse, still and panting.

"I'll mend it for you," Tarrant says hoarsely, kissing the top of her head. "No. I shall make you a new one. And perhaps a corset or two, _not_ to be worn under clothing."

Alice yawns, losing her fingers in his tangled hair. "Will you still call me naughty?"

"Always," replies Tarrant, fondly. "As will your mother, I shouldn't wonder."

"She'll expect us to get married, you know," Alice muses. "So will Margaret."

"Weddings are delightful," says Tarrant, propping his chin up on her breastbone. "So many new heads to hat! I should like that very much."

"And we'll have to have a second one," Alice continues. "In Underland, you see."

"Practice makes perfect," replies Tarrant, with a daft smile. "With weddings _and_ tea."

Alice grins back at him, combing out his hair. "Indeed."


	3. Half a Dozen Teatimes

**1.**

"Tarrant," says Alice, pronouncing each syllable carefully, as she's all too aware of her mother's bewildered scrutiny, "this is my aunt, Imogene. Aunt Imogene, this is my—" _Hatter_ , she wants to say, because that was true before anything else had been, in the beginning "—um, fiancé. Tarrant Hightopp. He's a hatter. _Er_. A very good one."

"Don't you think this is all a bit sudden?" her mother whispers behind her hand.

Oblivious, Tarrant reaches across the table and gallantly takes hold of Imogene's regally proffered fingertips. "Dear lady," he says, leaning to press a light kiss to Imogene's knuckles, "I am quite simply honored to meet _any_ such excellent relations belonging to our dear Alice. Shall I sugar your tea? Butter your bread?"

Alice lowers her eyes to her hands, which are clasped together white-knuckled in her lap. That ought to have been her mother's job as hostess, but there was no keeping Tarrant from performing the tasks at which he was best.

" _No_ ," she whispers back, fiercely. "It's just that you had no idea I had met him."

"In your travels, I suppose," mutters her mother, lowering her hand and returning Tarrant's radiant smile. She passes him the sugar bowl and the butter one after another. "So kind of you, Tarrant," she says. "Tell me, did you meet in Hong Kong?"

"Gracious, no," Tarrant says, busy dropping lumps of sugar into Imogene's tea. "I have only just now met your charming sister. But if you happened to mean _Alice_ , then yes: I did once meet h—" Tarrant pauses, as if he has to think very carefully about the pronoun "—er in Hong Kong. After a fashion. We were merely passing through." He shoots Alice a guilty glance, too brief to be caught by either of the older women. 

Alice gives him a minute, reassuring nod, taking a hasty bite of unbuttered bread.

"How completely romantic," sighs Imogene, fanning herself. "Perchance you will have met _my_ fiancé somewhere in your wanderings. He's a prince, you know—but, alas, we cannot marry. His family would never—"

"Aunt Imogene," murmurs Alice, softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. "I'm sure there are any number of single gentlemen in London who would love to make your acquaintance if they were only given the chance. You ought to ask—"

Tarrant's eyes turn fiery. "There are _plenty_ of eligible gentlemen in Under—"

"Tarrant!" Alice almost shouts, reaching across her lap to catch Tarrant's hand with her free one. His fingers remain unresponsive until she laces them with her own.

"Sorry," he mumbles, shaking himself. "I'm— _well_. What I meant was, of course, _where I'm from_. And that, dear lady, is _ever_ so far from here. It's hardly a trip one can make of an afternoon, although I should love to take you one day. Have you ever traveled by hat? We would have to shrink you, of course."

Aunt Imogene beams at Alice. "Such a lovely man you've found!"

"The scones ought to be done," says Alice's mother. "Alice, dear, will you help me?"

"Yes," Alice says, releasing both their hands. "Of course."

"What on _earth_ ," says her mother, as soon as they're alone inside, "was that?"

"What was what?" asks Alice, innocently, already pulling on a pair of oven mitts.

"His voice," replies her mother, clearly alarmed. It...changed. He sounds—"

"Yes, Mother," Alice sighs, scone tray in hand, having practiced this moment in her head at least a dozen times. "He's Scottish. Hadn't you noticed the hair? As for the accent, he's got it _mostly_ under control, as he's lived in London and elsewhere for such a very long time, but sometimes he just...slips," she finishes weakly.

"There's no accounting for taste," her mother sighs, smiling fondly. "But then, he's given to flights of fancy, just like your father. Come, dear: I'll hold the door."

They return to the conservatory just in time to hear Tarrant ask—

"I have been trying to discover the answer to this confounded riddle since time out of mind, so perchance you shall be able to enlighten me, since you seem _most_ wise. Have you any clue at all why a raven is like a writing desk?"

Without skipping a beat, Imogene answers, "Why, it must be because each one holds its fair share of writing-quills, although neither one is capable of using them!"

Tarrant blinks once at Imogene and once at Alice before breaking into a delighted grin.

"Alice, I _do_ believe you come by it honestly," he says, and begins to laugh.

"Come by what?" asks her mother, mystified. By now, Imogene is laughing, too.

"Nothing, Mother," replies Alice, and joins them.

 

**2.**

"I must say," Chessur purrs, "that this comes as something of a surprise. Hardly an _unwelcome_ one, however. Let's see the ring, then, shall we?"

Tarrant leaves off fiddling with his teacup and draws Alice's right hand out from where she's kept it impatiently hidden under the table. In Underland, the custom is this: right hand, thirdmost finger. Up above, the custom calls for left hand, fourthmost finger—or secondmost, as Outlanders would call it. Finding a ring that would fit both Alice's right-middle and left-ring (as Alice herself referred them, in her endearingly backward fashion) had been _maddeningly_ difficult. The pale blue rose-cut sapphire winked under Chessur's nose, and the tiny diamonds studding it at compass-points glittered like tea trays. _Stars_ , Alice would say. Unbeknownst to the others, he strokes her palm.

Alice shivers ever so slightly. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Very fine," agrees McTwisp, edging under Chessur's nose with his monocle in order to study the gemstones. Chessur sneezes, vanishing all but his head. "Very fine _indeed_. Was it chosen to match your hat, or was your hat made to match _it_?"

Alice rakishly tips the brim of her crowning glory. "Guess!"

"You first, Chess," Tarrant urges. It's best to let the quickest wit have the first crack.

"I abstain," says Chessur, primly. "McTwisp, my dear?"

"I suppose the ring came first," says the rabbit, fixing Tarrant with a knowing look over the rim of his monocle. "Your flair for impromptu additions is legendary."

"Well spotted," Alice says, wriggling her hand in Tarrant's grasp. "If you don't mind, I'll be needing this back. I can't very well hold both bread and cup with only my left!"

"Perhaps you're not _trying_ hard enough," Chessur suggests with a grin wickeder than usual. "Your feats of _balancing_ here at this very table, Alice, are _also_ legendary."

McTwisp tucks his monocle away and swats at Chessur's tail, which is visible once more. Such odd, _infuriating_ creatures, Cheshire-cats, even by Tarrant's standards. Although he shall be eternally grateful for their evaporating skills...

Alice clears her throat when the realization hits. She's not terribly swift on the up-take at times, and anyone worth their saucer knows that Chess is an incorrigible voyeur.

"Let her alone, you old rascal," McTwisp scolds. "That's hardly polite. We ought to be congratulating them. Felicitations, Alice and Tarrant! Many happy returns."

"I am what I am," replies Chess, with a feline shrug. "There's nothing for it."

Tarrant busies himself with a knife, his cheeks burning, and reaches for Alice's bread.

 

**3.**

"Tarrant," says Margaret, warmly, extending both hands. "My mother has told me ever so much about you! As has my dear old aunt. I think she's smitten."

"The pleasure is mine," Tarrant says, casting Alice a doubtful sidelong glance. "Likewise, your sister has told me all sorts of fascinating things about you. Such as your fine taste in hats—" Tarrant attempts to bite his tongue, fails "—and in men."

"Where _is_ Lowell?" asks Alice, innocently. As Tarrant bends to kiss Margaret's hands, Margaret fixes Alice with the strangest look she's been given since breakfast.

"Out shooting," Margaret says, sounding disappointed. "He finds teatime quite dull."

Tarrant straightens up, indignant. "Madam, I must humbly disagree. It's anything _but_."

"At least when you're around, if what I've heard is true," Margaret replies, leading them onto the verandah. "Would you care for some Earl Grey? Or perhaps first-flush Darjeeling? It's very fine this time of year. Lowell ordered it for me."

"What about the tea I brought you from Hong Kong?" Alice asks, taking a seat beside Margaret. "Have you tried it? It's quite rare. Lowell wouldn't know _where_ to find it."

"I wish you wouldn't be so hard on him," her sister sighs. "Yes, Alice, I've tried it, but the orange peel doesn't agree with me. I have to pick it out before brewing."

"That completely defeats the purpose," Alice sulks, slumping back in her chair.

"There, there," Tarrant says, reaching across the table to pat Alice's hand. "That simply means more for us—that is, if _you_ don't mind," he adds, offering Margaret his most disarming smile. "Come now, let's show off your ring."

" _I've_ seen it already," Alice mutters, about to fold her arms crossly, but Tarrant and Margaret have already got hold of her left hand, which is where the ring resides (somewhat loosely) for the time being. It longs to return to her right.

"How lovely!" exclaims Margaret. "It may need sizing down, though."

"It's fine," Alice insists, softening under Tarrant's imploring gaze. "And, yes, lovely."

"Tarrant, you're quite talented," Margaret says. "Will Alice have a hat to match?"

"Uncanny," Alice murmurs, but she can't keep from returning Tarrant's grin for long.

 

**4.**

"I c-c-can't _believe_ it!" Mallymkun wails from inside the teapot. "I simply _can't_!"

"There now, Mally," says Tarrant, gently coaxing, peering down the spout. "Alice has brought you some tea from _very_ far away indeed. And, if I may say so, it's _marvelous_. See? Now we're on _adjectives_ starting with M."

There's a sudden scraping sound, followed by the slightest tip of Mallymkun's sword abruptly protruding from the spout's opening. Tarrant wheels back in his chair, almost tipping it over. Alice steadies him with a ringed right hand on his elbow.

"Such a cruel trick," Thackery mutters into his teacup, "breakin' th'wee lass's heart."

"It's not a trick," says Alice, almost timidly, and Tarrant finds her tone even more alarming than Mallymkun's behavior. "Mally, _please_ come out," she begs, taking hold of the teapot. She cradles it to her chest much as Tarrant remembers having done when a tiny, half-naked Alice had been inside it. "I haven't seen you in so long, and the tea is _ever_ so good. My sister didn't like it. Your taste is _far_ better than hers."

"I'm not hungry!" shouts Mallymkun, her voice echoing off the porcelain. " _Or_ thirsty!"

"Ye could've at least _warned_ her," says Thackery, gruffly. " _Milk_."

"Well, I—" Tarrant swallows, finding himself for once, utterly and indubitably, lost for words. If Cheshire-cats are infuriating creatures, then Dormice are _most_ perplexing ones. He silently appeals to Alice, ignoring Thackery's glare.

"Mally," she says, lifting the lid of the teapot (at her enchanting eyes' peril, very likely). "Surely you'd caught wind of this from Chessur. He can't keep his mouth shut."

"I th-th-thought he was _lying_! Besides, he's m-m-madder than we are."

"Doubtful," says Tarrant, pensively. He squeezes his eyes shut and covers his mouth.

The sound of Alice's careful voice brings him back. "Mally, we've both missed you so, and it will absolutely break my heart if you won't consent to be my maid of honor."

There's a faint scurrying up the side of the pot. "Wh-what's that?"

"It means you'll get to wear your finest, sword and all. And carry flowers."

"No flowers," says Mallymkun, peevishly, but her nose appears over the rim.

"It's a deal," agrees Alice, solemnly. Slow on the up-take she may be, but her cajoling skills are exemplary. Tarrant claps his hands together in relief, and even Thackery seems less agitated. Cup-throwing would be the icing on the cake.

"All right," Mallymkun says, leaping up onto the table. "But I'm not letting either of you off the hook _that_ easily. You've got a _lot_ of explaining to do!"

Just as Tarrant opens his mouth, her sword plants itself squarely in his thumb.

 

**5.**

"Congratulations are in order, Alice," says Hamish, stiffly. On his arm, his own recent bride—a peaky dark-haired thing from Yorkshire named Millicent—glances about as if she's afraid she'll catch something nasty if they remain too long.

"Thank you very much," Alice says with a smug curtsy. "The ceremony _was_ quite perfect, wasn't it? Mother had wanted something more, I know, but—"

"Simple," offers Millicent, yawning demurely. "If you like that sort of thing."

"Very much so," Tarrant answers, reaching up to adjust the hat he'd created for her. It wasn't very flattering. "Simplicity of words often permits other more _pressing_ complexities to shine. There you are! _Do_ get some rest."

Aunt Imogene stepped up to Alice and put an arm through hers, beaming.

"Aren't these hats _extraordinary_?" Hers was lavender with trailing ribbons at the back and feathers at the front. Tarrant had embroidered her name just under the brim.

"Quite so," Hamish says, hastily clearing his throat. "If you don't mind, we ought—"

"Yes, of course," Alice says, waving them off. She pulls a face once they're gone.

"Alice, dear, that's _highly_ unattractive," says Hamish's mother, appearing out of nowhere. "However, I wish you both nothing but the best. After all, your indecisiveness saved us a _world_ of trouble."

Tarrant raises his eyebrows, and Imogene murmurs, "I'll explain it later, dear."

Alice tilts her head, smiling thinly. "And your tiresome obsession with digestion inspired me to _see_ the world. Is your husband still here? I saw him during the ceremony, but I had very much hoped—"

"Alice!" exclaims Lord Ascot, appearing as if her very mentioning had summoned him. He bows, bends to kiss her cheek, and then takes her ringed left hand and joins it with Tarrant's right. "In your father's absence, I give you my blessing. You made a lovely bride in the end." He winks at her, and then smiles at Tarrant. "Mark my words, you've got your work cut out for you. Alice is nothing tame."

"That's perfectly fine," says Tarrant. "I've _plenty_ of previous experience."

Lord Ascot turns back to Alice. "What's this I've heard about the two of you meeting in our travels? Surely you hadn't the _time_. It seems to me we kept you quite busy!"

"It's an impossible story," Alice replies. "I'll tell it to you sometime."

 

**6.**

Mirana's tea table is impossibly long, which is what Tarrant loves most about it.

"Now, that wasn't _so_ terrible," he asks, glancing upward, "was it?"

"I suppose not," says Mallymkun from her perch on the brim of his gaily refurbished hat. The other part of the bargain had been that she'd get to ride around on it all day. He'd heard her sniffling quietly throughout the ceremony, but when he'd removed his hat to cheering at the end of it, he'd caught her grinning up at Alice through her tears. "All of Underland's turned out. I can't see the end of the table from here!"

"Not nohow," agrees Tweedledee. "There's cousins of ours we ain't seen since never!"

"Contrariwise," explains Tweedledum, "we ain't ever seen them at _all_."

"That's what I said!"

"Is not!"

"Is so!"

"Is—"

The White Queen silences them all with a single tap of her wineglass. Alice seems more than pleased that there is, in fact, actual wine to be had this time: a rare red vintage all the way from Witzend. Her cheeks are flushed with it.

"A toast to the bride and groom!" she shouts, for once abandoning her deceptively demure demeanor. "To Alice and Tarrant! To our champion and her squire!"

The cry went up, so loud as to be deafening: "Calloo, callay!"

Alice joined Tarrant in applause only after she'd unplugged her ears. Somehow, Mallymkun had managed to fall from Tarrant's hat and into his half-full wineglass, but it looked as if she didn't mind in the least. She was busy finishing it.

" _That's_ the Tarrant we all know and admire," Chessur grins, appearing out of nowhere. "The life of the party is restored. Kiss her once for me, _hmmm_?"

"I'll do you one better," says Alice, and kisses Tarrant soundly.

In spite of the renewed cheering, all that Tarrant can hear is Chessur's satisfied purr.


	4. Never Broken

"How are we getting on?" calls Tarrant, anxiously. By the sound of it, he's still pacing back and forth across the room. He pauses, his shadow briefly growing larger against the silk divider panels hiding her from sight. "Do you need assistance?"

"No!" Alice shouts, redoubling her efforts, both hands twisted up awkwardly in ribbons behind her back. She'd gone to the trouble of learning how to lace her own corsets years ago, mostly so she'd know how to get out of them again as soon as the maid or her mother had left the room. "No peeking! I won't allow it." 

She pulls the last set of eyelets tight and ties the bow blind. There is no mirror behind the divider to tell her how it looks, but it feels _different_ from the rigid, pragmatic whalebone ones into which she'd been shoved since the age of twelve. As for Tarrant's handiwork, there's no doubt that it's flawless: the corset is made from heavy, midnight-blue damask patterned with exotic flowers, some of which she's only ever seen in Underland. The trim is pale, forget-me-not blue, something like satin, but not _quite_ the same. She runs her palms down the contours of the boning, puzzling over how unconfining it feels. She bends over experimentally, finding it flexible.

In the meantime, Tarrant has gone quite still. From the shape of his shadow, he's sitting at the foot of the bed, hands folded in his lap. "It ought not to have suffocated you," he ventures finally. "I gave it most _explicit_ orders in the making: you are to breathe to your lungs' content. If it has disobeyed, my seam-ripper is at the ready!"

"That won't be necessary," Alice reassures him, crouching down on the floor before rising again. "There's no pain at all. How extraordinary!" She's amazed at the concept of a corset that does not hinder movement, let alone breathing, and flushes slightly thinking of the obvious advantages. Tarrant is mindful of both form _and_ function.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he asks. "The room has suffered for your absence these twenty minutes past. The décor simply doesn't work without you."

Alice takes a deep breath, sweeping her hair back. "Promise me Chess isn't lurking about somewhere. I couldn't bear it if I looked dreadful. He'd have one more thing to tease me about, as if the one thing he's already got isn't bad enough!"

"Ah," Tarrant says. "I can't promise you a thing, for Chess is _always_ lurking about somewhere. However, suffice it to say that he pursues most instances of peeping out-of-doors. As long as the curtains are drawn, we're sorted." His voice softens as his shadow rises to its feet, moving from window to window. "Please come out, love. Cottages by the sea are lonely places, not meant to be sat in alone."

Alice emerges hesitantly, both hands clasped behind her back. Even indoors, Underland after dark is a strange, uncharted place, and the waves outside sound wilder, fiercer than the ones she'd known in her childhood at Brighton and Calais. Tarrant turns from drawing the final set of curtains, seemingly stunned enough to drop his hat, which he'd been clutching one-handed to his chest. Alice can't help but lighten the moment with laughter; his coat and shoes are gone, leaving him standing there in mismatched striped stockings and kilt with his shirt half unbuttoned.

"I'm sorry," Alice manages, covering her mouth, "but you look...so..."

"Delicious," says Tarrant, his eyes and voice dark with the same hunger. "Delectable. Nay, positively _devourable_. Were you not mine, I'd recommend you to _anyone_ with a side of jam and clotted cream. But, as it stands," he concludes decisively, the Outlandish burr sending a shiver down Alice's spine, "you _are_ mine."

"Yes, Tarrant," Alice agrees, setting two fingers against his lips. "Yours."

"Forgive me," he whispers, taking her hand in both of his, turning his head until his cheek is cradled in her palm. "I quite forgot myself. I'm _fine_. Alice, please know that I could never permit myself to harm you, not even when—"

"Shhh," Alice murmurs, using her free hand to continue where he'd left off with his buttons. "You called me something just now. What was it?"

Tarrant's brows knit in mild confusion. "Delicious? Delectable? Devourable? I've skipped backwards to D, you see. We missed it on the first go."

"No," says Alice, patiently, taking hold of his shirt with both hands now in order to tug it free of his kilt. "Before that. When you were closing the curtains."

"Well, it's entirely _too_ true," he whispers, his eyes a brighter shade of green than she's ever seen them as he skims his fingertips along her collarbone, breathing in the sight of her. "I may be only half-mad, but I am _completely_ besotted."

Alice tugs the shirt down off his shoulders. " _Yes_ , but what did you—"

"That's enough chatter," Tarrant says, smiling fondly. "Come to bed, my love."

Between kisses and vanishing clothes—kilt and corset last of all—Alice counts the things of which she'll never grow tired, none of which are impossible. She'll never tire of Tarrant's hands, which have learned the lay of her body with tender, uncanny precision. Even less of the way he tastes, simultaneously like every tea he's ever drunk and unabashedly like _himself_. She breathes warmly in his right ear and feels a shudder pass through him, sparking in every inch of skin that touches between them from forehead to foot-arch. She'll never tire of bracing herself over him for hours, never tire of the languid eagerness with which he rises to meet her. The way he feels under her. _Inside_ her. They both tremble with it, limbs tensing, then unwinding.

"You are the bravest creature," Tarrant murmurs, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, "that I have _ever_ known." He yawns and tugs Alice in tighter, resting his nose at her exposed nape. Her hair is swept somewhere up above them, spilling untidily over the pillows. Alice glances over her shoulder at him, questioning.

"Why?"

"To have known so young, and without a _doubt_ , what and _who_ you wanted."

Alice attempts turning towards him, but the arm snug about her waist makes it difficult. She pokes and prods at it until she's able to roll over, her hair tangling with some of Tarrant's flyaway strands. He's smiling sadly, just as he had done on the first night she went to him under a thousand tea-tray bright constellations.

"Tell me about them," she says. "Your lovers. The ones who came before me."

"Alice," he murmurs, his eyes growing paler, "there was never _anyone_ before you."

"I find that hard to believe," she replies, but knows he's telling the truth. "Anyone with half an ounce of sense would have had you. You must have got tired of waiting!"

"Not in the least. I'm a very busy person, and a very _choosy_ one, too. Between hatting and rebellion and the taking of tea, there are only so many hours in the day."

They lie in silence for a few minutes, letting his words fade until all they can hear is the ocean. Alice kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin, his lips. "It was the grandest rebellion I've ever seen," she tells him.

"Yes," he sighs. "It wouldn't have been the same without you. That armor—"

"Was far _worse_ than a corset in the end," Alice cuts in, wrinkling her nose.

"And your wedding-present?" asks Tarrant, expectantly, lifting his head to peer over her onto the floor. As usual, they'd taken very little heed of where anything landed.

"Extraordinary, as I said," she reassures him. "What _did_ you use for boning?"

"Her Majesty was kind enough to save me a handful of poor Jabberwocky's ribs."

Alice gaped at him. "But it's so..."

"Supple," Tarrant finishes. "But those bones will never break, try as you might."

"Try as _you_ might," Alice says, poking him in the ribs. "I'll be sure to pack it."

Tarrant gives her a quizzical look. "Pack?"

Alice nods. "Our ship sails the day after Mirana sends us back to London."

"Goodness!" Tarrant exclaims. "I do love surprises. Where to?"

"Hong Kong first," she says, "and after that, well—we'll make it up as we go along."

Tarrant grins even wider than Chessur at his finest.

"That, I think," he says, "is _exactly_ what we do best."


	5. Ways and Means

In much the same way that Tarrant keeps lists of words beginning with various letters of the alphabet, Alice has begun cataloguing all of the various ways in which Underland can be reached. Rabbit holes. Dreams. The consumption of questionable biological substances, assuming she's within her rights to count return journeys.

"Perhaps it's more a list of ways back _and_ forth," Tarrant suggests in a loud whisper, ducking a low branch as they make their way through the underbrush. "We are, after all, discussing the passage from one world to another, regardless of which way you look at it. I would suggest upside-down next. _Alice_! Mind your step."

"Thank you," Alice murmurs, taking a moment to catch her breath, grateful of the steadying arm about her waist. "I could have _sworn_ it was around here somewhere. This is the way McTwisp led me, and I would know the tree again if I saw it."

"It's dark. We can't see much of _anything_." Tarrant's frown is almost audible.

Alice squints, pointing. "There—above the rise! I can see the sky through the leaves."

"This may be an inopportune moment to mention such things," says Tarrant, hesitantly, quickening his pace to keep up with her, "but are we _trespassing_?"

"I suppose so," Alice muses, but that fact is very far from her current concern. "Lord and Lady Ascot are abed by now, and even if the groundskeeper were up and about, I doubt he'd cast his lantern this far afield. Ah! _There_! Isn't it monstrous?"

"Indeed," Tarrant replies, swallowing apprehensively, "though I doubt we'll both fit."

"It widens once you've begun the fall," Alice explains, crouching with care.

Tarrant's eyes glow the color of new grass in the dusky half-light. "Ladies first."

"My pleasure," says Alice, turning to grin at him before dropping forward.

"Alice!" Tarrant calls, his voice spinning swiftly out of earshot. "How do I— _aaaiiieee_!"

The tunnel is filled with the same dim, eerie illumination as before, but it is curiously devoid of drifting objects, as if someone had been through to tidy up. Idly, Alice reaches out to skim her fingers along the spine of an errant book. Above her, Tarrant's shrieks grow both nearer and less frequent. She smiles inwardly to think she hasn't uttered so much as a sound. He's calling her name now, asking if she's all right.

"I'm fine!" she shouts back, resisting the urge to laugh, and that's when she hits bottom—once for the ceiling, _twice_ for the floor—and coughs as the wind's knocked out of her. Tarrant isn't far behind, and he lands beside her with a startled huff.

Alice recovers herself quickly, taking hold of Tarrant's shoulders. "Are _you_ all right?"

"No," he mutters, allowing her to haul him to his knees. "My hat—"

"Is right over there," Alice reassures him, pointing to the far side of the room.

"Ah!" he exclaims, scrambling to retrieve it. In one piece again, he rises and dusts himself off, bending to offer Alice his hand. "What a peculiar place this is. Mally was hardly lying. Where do you suppose the other doors lead?"

"Nowhere," Alice says, walking over to the table. "Now, all we've got to do is..."

The words die on her lips. The bottle of _pishsalver_ is there, but the key is not.

Tarrant peers expectantly over her shoulder. "Is—?"

"It's gone," Alice says, disbelieving. 

She drops down on all fours to investigate. The half-eaten piece of _upelkuchen_ is exactly where she'd left it, safe in the small glass box, but the key doesn't seem to have fallen. Vaguely, she tries to remember what she'd done with it after opening the door. She crawls over to the curtain and sweeps it aside, finding the door shut and locked. She twists the doorknob in frustration, hammering the floor with her fist.

"Oh dear," Tarrant says, crouching beside her. "I can see what you mean."

Alice sits down in defeat. "I might have dropped it on the other side. The last time I was here, I mean. The garden was astonishing. I'd never seen anything like it."

Tarrant settles down across from her, wearing a knowing look.

"That I could _remember_ ," Alice corrects herself, reaching out to straighten his hat. "I don't know what to do. I suppose we're stuck here, at least for a little while."

Tarrant leans forward until his lips brush her cheek, her jawline, the shell of her ear.

"Yes, but I don't mind the company. We shall have to try _very_ hard not to get hungry."

"True. There's scarcely enough room in here for one overgrown person, let alone two."

They're well into a leisurely kiss when a loud snuffling manifests beyond the key-hole.

"Alice?" asks a gruff, familiar voice. "Is that you?"

They break apart hastily, round-eyed at the sudden influx of curious yipping.

"Bielle, will you hold them back, please? I can hardly hear."

"Bayard!" Alice calls, pounding on the door. "We're so glad you're here!"

"Does my nose deceive me, or is Tarrant there, too?"

Tarrant clears his throat, leaning slightly towards the door. "None other."

"You can come out," Bayard says. "The pups won't hurt you."

"We would," Alice says, "but there's a bit of a problem. The key's not here."

Bayard howls softly in distress. "Problematic indeed. McTwisp is responsible for the upkeep hereabouts, but today he's at Marmoreal balancing the Queen's ledgers."

"She never was good at maths, the poor dear," Tarrant sighs.

"Bayard, I hate to ask you to do this," Alice says, "but would you be willing to fetch him? I know it's a long way, but he's the one most likely to have the key."

"Of course we will," Bielle interjects. "It's nigh on evening. We ought to return."

One of the pups sticks a damp, determined nose up to the key-hole.

"Mama, I've smelled them before!"

"Goodness, but they're growing _fast_ ," Tarrant remarks, pressing one finger to the key-hole and getting an affectionate lick for his trouble. "They kept me company while I was in prison, you know. I'd have gone _much_ madder otherwise."

"I'm glad," Alice says, gently drawing his hand away. "Thank you, Bielle. Thank you _ever_ so much! And please tell Mirana we've got enough _pishsalver_ and _upelkuchen_."

"Off with you!" barks Bayard. "Follow your mother." He turns back to the key-hole, snuffling one last time, as if to reassure himself that they're really there. "I'll send McTwisp to help you posthaste. He'll be glad to know you've returned!"

Before either of them can respond, Bayard tears off, howling. Alice slumps back against the wall, breathing a deep sigh of relief. "How fortunate someone was there," she says. "We might not have been discovered for days."

"Hours is more like it," Tarrant replies, settling close beside her. "Chess is never far away, and he _does_ so enjoy intruding upon the misfortunes of others."

"It might have gone quicker if he'd found us first," Alice says, letting her eyes drift to the bottle of _pishsalver_. "Just think—he could have blinked from here to Marmoreal in an instant." Suddenly thoughtful, she rises, turning to catch Tarrant's questioning gaze. She takes hold of the bottle and comes back to him, grinning mischievously. "We might as well get the worst of it over with. It's not as if we've anything else to do."

"On the contrary," says Tarrant, innocently enough, "I can think of a few things."

"So can I," Alice replies, uncorking the bottle and tilting it to her lips before he can protest. "Here," she says, thrusting the bottle into Tarrant's unsuspecting hands.

"Never a dull moment," he mutters under his breath, downing the vile stuff in one gulp. Alice watches him loom higher and higher above her until the voluminous folds of her dress finally close over her head. She fishes her way out of the heavy fabric, shivering as she tumbles her way down the pile of her skirts to Tarrant's abandoned clothing. She's as naked now as she'd been in the Red Queen's garden.

"Tarrant?" she ventures, peering up the sleeve of his coat. "Where are you?"

"Exactly where I should be!" he shouts from somewhere above her, his voice muffled. She peers up the slope to where his hat rests at the apex. One of his hands appears from beneath the brim, gesturing. "Do come inside, it's quite cozy!"

"Just as I remember it," she says, crawling under. In the near-darkness, Tarrant's white skin takes an otherworldly cast. She steps close to him, aware that he seems slightly self-conscious. "Under any other circumstances, I would call this _dreadfully_ inconvenient," she says, molding her hands to his hipbones with a smile.

"I do hope you realize," Tarrant says, leaning till their foreheads touch, "that we're too small to reach the doorknob. We ought not to have drunk so much."

"A crumb or two of _upelkuchen_ each ought to do it," Alice reassures him, letting her hands drift down to the backs of his thighs. She feels his muscles tense, half in anxiety, half in anticipation. "When the time comes, of course."

"I'm too small to use my needle. I shan't be able to clothe us, and _that_ , my dear Alice, is dreadfully inconvenient, for the only thing I enjoy more than _un_ dressing you is—"

"You're giving this far too much thought," Alice says, arching up against him until the fabric beneath their feet sets them off-balance and they fall in a breathless heap.

"And _you_ ," says Tarrant, his voice transformed, sliding one knee up between her thighs, "haven't thought this through closely _enough_." Alice's heart begins to pound as he pins her with a lip-bruising kiss. When he pulls away at last, his breathing is uneven. His eyes drift slowly back into focus as he brushes Alice's hair back and off her forehead. "But then, I've always found your lack of sense endearing."

Alice presses a kiss to the hollow of Tarrant's throat, tracing the pronounced jut of his collarbone. "Show me," she teases, shifting until she can feel the satisfying heat of him against her belly. "Is it very different, now that we're _both_ too small?"

"Only in that we are under my hat, which _is_ quite cozy. I'll miss it," he adds, drawing Alice's knees up tight to cradle his hips. He reaches between them, his deft fingers more than able to find their way. His thumb lingers over her sensitized flesh, stroking.

"I _have_ missed it," Alice gasps, rocking forward in order to take him all at once.

This time is neither leisurely, nor slow. Alice takes a strange thrill in knowing they may be discovered at any moment, yet knows beneath the fire and fervor of their joining that she feels safe, shielded from the garden outside. She muffles Tarrant's shout against her shoulder as he comes, her hand pressed fiercely to the back of his head. She has no breath left with which to make a sound, lost in him and in herself.

At length, Tarrant kisses her shoulder and says, "If you ever plan to do that again, _please_ give me fair warning. And, try as I might, I _do_ prefer you in proper Alice-size."

They flip the hat over to let the air cool and clear, blinking against the intrusion of light. After they've taken a few crumbs of _upelkuchen_ each, Alice, now able to reach the doorknob, wraps herself in Tarrant's shirt and watches with fascination as he fashions them simple garments from the excess length of her dress.

"That way, once we're out and normal size again," he explains, "all we'll have to do is reach through and drag these out. You'll still be able to wear your dress. It'll be shorter, of course, and I shall be able to see your legs all the better."

"What about your hat?" Alice asks, cinching in the dress with an improvised sash.

Tarrant pauses over the stitching of a rudimentary kilt, troubled.

"Regrettably, you have a point. It's not exactly collapsible."

"I might," says a disembodied voice, echoing off the ceiling, "be of some assistance."

Tarrant finishes the stitching quickly, satisfied that the garment won't slide down and off his hips. "You're late," he tells Chessur, somewhat triumphantly, but nonetheless sounding slightly vexed. "Am I to understand that help is on the way?"

"You know McTwisp," Chessur purrs, twisting down like a plume of furred smoke to peer at them. "He never _could_ keep up. No better than you can," he tells Alice with a wink. "I expect he'll be some while yet. Tell me, what _are_ these oh-so-fetching rags?"

Tarrant scowls at him, already well into something loosely resembling a shirt.

"Just enough to keep the draft out," Alice tells him.

McTwisp arrives ten minutes later, winded. He doesn't even bother to greet them, merely turns the key in the lock and throws the door wide, staring in joyous disbelief.

"You won't want to forget this," says Chessur, placing the remainder of the _upelkuchen_ in Alice's hand. "I'm afraid it's gone a bit stale in your absence."

Tarrant offers Alice his arm. "Shall we, milady?"

"I think so," she says, grinning as she takes it.

They walk barefoot into a garden made new again, bright with impossibilities.


	6. All the Best People Are

**1.**

All too often, Bayard caught himself thinking that humans were fickle creatures. At best, they had little to no sense of loyalty, and at worst, they'd burn, pillage, and kill until they'd got what they wanted. Or what they _thought_ they'd wanted. It hadn't been until recently that Bayard could even concede their capacity to recognize mistakes, let alone grave wrongdoing. He was glad to have given them the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, Tarrant had always been one of the few humans with whom Bayard had always known exactly where he stood. Humans were mostly easy to read, and none of them so simple as the Hatter. He'd known who was in that teapot cradled so carefully in Tarrant's lap before he'd even crossed under the full length of the table.

As for Alice herself, Bayard hadn't known her the first time around. However, he'd heard the stories, both of who she had been and who she was to become. No one had spoken of her so fondly and with such high hopes as Tarrant, and Bayard had found himself wondering if Tarrant would be disappointed when Gribling arrived.

When he'd finally met the girl, he'd understood why Tarrant had been anything _but_. In spite of the fact that she'd been only several inches high, she'd commanded an authority rivaling that of the White Queen herself. _Sit_ , she'd ordered him, bringing them as close to eye-to-eye as she could. She certainly hadn't lacked for courage.

And in their darkest hour, the morning of Tarrant's and Mallymkun's joint execution, he wouldn't have traded his time in that dungeon with Bielle, the pups, and his old, dear friends for all of the sunshine in Underland. He'd come to understand something vital about Alice, no small thanks to Tarrant's disconnected train-cars of verbalized thought.

"Do you know," Tarrant had said, wearing his sad smile like a badge of honor, "that there's only one place I would rather be right now than here with all of you?"

"Aw, bless," Mallymkun had said, stepping up to the bars. "Where's that, Hatter?"

Bayard and Bielle had just looked at him expectantly, while the pups played on.

Tarrant's smile had turned into the slightest of frowns, even as his eyes had burned a troubled shade of gold. "With Alice," he said softly. "Wherever she may be."

"Even dead?" Mallymkun asked, somewhat tearful now.

Tarrant's eyes sparked as if he found the thought funny, pale grass-green once more. "If that is, indeed, the case," he said with a short laugh, "I shall be joining her soon!"

Bayard closes his eyes on the memory, briefly blotting out the scene before him. It's a bright day at Marmoreal, and the sun streams through the high, arched windows of Tarrant's chambers, providing no lack of warm spaces on the richly rugged floor for Bayard's three daughters to nap in. On a low divan across the room, Alice sits, haloed by her shining hair, with Bayard's son in her lap, lazily scratching the lad's belly. Over at the mirror, Tarrant is busy fitting Bielle with a bonnet to wear to the wedding.

Of all the things that Underland had lost, Alice had returned to them this: _love_.

 

**2.**

Faith and Fiona had known Alice for far longer than _anybody_ who'd been at the ill-fated engagement party. They'd been children together—and Alice had been a _frightfully_ strange child, her eyes haunted and dark, her hair wild. Still, they'd had their fare share of charmingly wondrous adventures, which had, regrettably, ended several years ago when they'd been unable to persuade her to come swimming in the Havershims' pond. Which knowledge she'd held over their heads as blackmail, the sly creature! There'd been no harm done. She wouldn't _really_ have told their mother.

However, Faith and Fiona had often talked of Alice and sanity keeping poor company, and never had it been _more_ apparent than when she'd turned up again after fleeing Hamish's proposal with her hair undone, her dress dirtied and torn. Fallen down a hole indeed! What hole, one should wonder, to come back spouting such cryptic, prophetical nonsense? The resulting gossip had been that poor Margaret's husband was not so perfect as he seemed, not to mention that Lady Ascot had been thinking of nothing but her grandchildren's looks. As for the piece that Alice had spoken to _them_ , it was sure proof that she would go the way of her poor spinster aunt, Imogene. A pair of funny boys! They'd laughed for hours that night, naked in the silvery twilight.

 _That_ had been a year ago. How very different things looked now!

Hamish had married dear Millicent scarcely two months before, although she was a quiet, proper thing with no sense of fun. She was sure to produce plain-looking grandchildren. Faith and Fiona had harbored fancies of one of them perhaps stepping in to take Alice's place, but, alas, it was not to be. And as for Alice herself...

She'd been to China and back. She'd brought with her teas even rarer than the ones Lady Ascot served, and she'd shed all traces of the girlishness that her would-be mother-in-law had so prized. She was sharper and thinner, somehow, but also decidedly imposing. It wasn't difficult to imagine her in the Queen's own finery, ordering everyone about. Imagine Lady Ascot as Alice's lady-in-waiting!

What was more, she'd brought back a mysterious fiancé—another ginger, no less!

Tarrant Hightopp was, quite possibly, the most final and incontrovertible evidence against their dear friend's wholeness of mind. He'd made hats for _everybody_ to wear to the wedding, and it had only taken him a fortnight. Their mother was already talking of clearing her wardrobe and commissioning him to make her new clothing altogether. He'd certainly made an impression, what with his penchant for riddles that had no answers—unless he happened to ask Imogen; in which case, answers were plentiful and apt. Even Helen and Margaret were charmed, if a bit perplexed.

Still, for all Tarrant's oddities, it was difficult not to envy Alice the way that he looked at her, as if a whole world lay between them that was theirs and theirs alone.

 

**3.**

From the moment Tarrant had denied her a ride on his hat, Mallymkun had known. Even during the confusion following their foiled execution, he'd scooped her up in his hands and carried her only as far as where Bayard, Bielle, the pups, the Tweedles, and McTwisp had been waiting for them outside the gates of Salazen Grum.

It was partly her own fault, of course. As brave as she was in the face of any beast, from Red Knight to Bandersnatch, she'd never made her feelings known. Perhaps it was because she'd seen over the years what Tarrant had made of Alice in his memory, a love to which he had struggled to put a soul until Gribling finally arrived.

It didn't help that Alice had been beautiful. It didn't help, either, that, in spite of all her protestations to the contrary, Mallymkun had, in fact, known that McTwisp had _not_ brought the wrong Alice. Her hair was every bit as unruly as it ought to have been, her temper every bit as contrary. She could never have begrudged Tarrant the sudden light in his eyes and in his smile. Alice had stepped from his mind and into being.

Tarrant had vanished without telling any of them where he was going, leaving Mirana to explain, to unroll the Oraculum to the appointed place with demurely lowered eyes. Mallymkun had never known such fury, such abject despair. So _that's_ what had finally happened, on one of those nights when at last she and Thackery had ceased to accompany Tarrant to the abandoned tea-table. She'd held the image in her heart in spite of the bitter pain of it, a thing of delicate, horrifying wonder. She saw the curtain of Alice's hair in her dreams and woke to tears, knowing full well what it hid.

The trouble was, she'd grown to care for Alice as much as she felt love for Tarrant.

They had returned, of course. They'd walked into Marmoreal arm in arm, Tarrant looking disheveled, and Alice sporting a ragged-hemmed dress that was at least a foot too short. McTwisp had looked all too pleased with himself for having saved the day, and Chessur had just hovered beside them with a knowing look in his eyes that Mallymkun hadn't liked at _all_. News of their intention to wed _again_ , in Underland, had followed the next day at their old tea-table. Mallymkun had shut herself in a teapot.

She'd let Alice coax her out of it, exactly as she'd planned, but she'd given Tarrant a piece of her mind that was sure to guarantee the re-bandaging of his thumb for at least a week or two. She'd find him a new thimble to wear down the aisle.

And, come hell or high water, she _would_ be watching it all from his hat.

 

**4.**

Whatever it was that Alice had feared ending up like, it couldn't have been _this_.

Tarrant is, Imogene is convinced, the best and sweetest man on earth—barring her own long-lost fiancé, of course, who has lately come to her in a dream and informed her that he has, tragically, died of everlasting love. She is content with this state of affairs, not least because now poor Helen needs not endure widowhood alone. The house being empty of both daughters and husband, Imogene has quite happily taken her sister's invitation to move in. They don't lack for company, as the girls and their husbands are forever coming and going, along with the occasional gentleman caller for Helen. Imogene, at least, is content. She knows where her heart lies.

Alice and Tarrant have just returned from their business-trip-turned-honeymoon in Hong Kong. Alice has taken to wearing her hair in some complicated Oriental fashion, piled up in delicate twists and intricate knots. Tarrant warrants that this makes the wearing of hats difficult; however, he is most pleased with the effect and, therefore, does not mind her going about bare-headed. Or bare-legged, it would seem, as Imogene has caught the white flash of Alice's shins on more than one occasion. It's worth watching Helen close her eyes in order to stave off a flare of temper.

Tarrant's own wardrobe has proved far more outlandish than the ensemble he had worn to their first meeting would have suggested, which delights Imogene to no end. She's never seen such a colorful cravat, and his coat the color of peacock feathers is unquestionably her favorite. Most Scotsmen don't dress with nearly as much flair—to their absolute detriment, no doubt! Why, if she'd been Alice, she'd have accepted nothing less than the finest plumage. One of his darker coats has a little dragonfly embroidered on the lapel. He's wearing it today. Alice's silk dress is the blue of summer twilight, sewn with tiny silver-bright stars. Or are they tea-trays?

"Finally, a corset," says Helen, drawing away from Alice's embrace.

"Not all of them are so dreadful," Alice says agreeably, which is very unlike her.

"There are ways of getting around such unpleasantness," Tarrant chimes in, only to realize, in light of Helen's shocked expression, that perhaps he ought not to have.

Imogene fans herself, pleased. "I haven't bothered with the things for _years_."

Of all the startled laughter around her, Tarrant's and Alice's mingle the most sweetly.

 

**5.**

Transformations are never simple, let alone the transition from one life to another.

Absolem has many secrets, none of which he guards as jealously as this: Alice is the only truly effortless chameleon he's ever known, navigating between Underland and the world above with a serpent's grace. For all that he calls her _stupid girl_ , it's out of deepest affection. Nonetheless, he'd been harsh with her out of expediency. She might never have got to the Frabjous Day, let alone back to Underland, in the first place.

They had all realized, of course, that her return was necessary not just for Underland at large, but for Tarrant in particular. Madness in great ones had _never_ gone unwatched, not for as long as Absolem had been there as Keeper of the Oraculum and Settler of Disputes. The fact that he'd had to both consult the Oraculum _and_ settle a dispute all in one fell swoop on Gribling had made him quite cross—but then, he had known it was coming. Even Tarrant had known, as tenuous as his grasp on the passage of time had grown. As if by magic, the dead watch had begun to tick.

Alice sits with Absolem now in the shade, her wings much darker and more lifeless than his. They pass the hookah back and forth in companionable silence, Alice holding the mouthpiece for Absolem because the apparatus is far too heavy for his new form to support. Her time in the East has taught her a few things, not least the value of a good, long smoke, especially if the tobacco in question is rose-flavored.

"There," says Absolem, exhaling a plume, "isn't breathing-in preferable to coughing?"

"Yes, although I don't think Tarrant's quite got the knack for it yet." She blows directly in Absolem's face, grinning exactly like a dragon that's grown too proud for its scales.

"You two are more alike than you'll ever know," says Absolem, severely.

"Do you mean Tarrant and me?" Alice frowns slightly. "We're different enough—"

"No, stupid girl," laughs Absolem. "I don't mean Tarrant at _all_."

 

**6.**

Above all things, Helen has learned this: daughters will do what they will.

Where Margaret had been over-hasty to accept Lowell's proposal of marriage, Alice had been altogether contrary enough _not_ to accept Hamish. Helen recalls her betrothal to Charles with wistful fondness: three years of careful courtship that had led to forty years of marriage and two beautiful daughters. Charles had not wanted her to accept until he was certain that the company would succeed. Helen had known it would.

If Alice had inherited anything from her, it was that very confidence.

Where Tarrant has really come from, Helen can't be sure. There are moments in which he seems more a figment of Alice's imagination come to life than an eccentric, well-traveled Scottish hatter. She wonders if his condition of perpetual nervous distraction is anything about which Alice ought to be more concerned than she is. Mercury poisoning is no laughing matter, although Tarrant hardly seems to be dying. As for his unearthly pallor, she's heard of such things, delicate souls born with white skin and pale blue, green, or colorless eyes. She's always sure to seat him in the shade, which is perhaps not necessary, given the perpetual presence of his hat.

With Margaret's first child on the way, Helen isn't concerned about a lack of grandchildren. Alice and Tarrant are far too happily absorbed in each other to be thinking of such things, although she shouldn't wonder, for that very fact, why Alice _hasn't_ yet made an announcement to match her sister's, even if out of sheer surprise. It's a thing unspoken, delicate and tenuous, that drifts on the air along with Tarrant's myriad newly solved riddles. If it's something that they want, but for which they dare not hope, neither one shows the slightest sign of grief. They exist for each other.

Helen knows that Charles, above all others, would have approved.


	7. Turnabout

Alice has grown accustomed to the vagaries of sharing her bed with an early-rising eccentric. By now, she can recognize the scent of around a dozen types of tea before she's even fully awake. Scone-crumbs scattered amongst the linens are merely a fact of life, as are mysterious scraps of fabric and empty thread-spools. But there's a line _somewhere_ , and now, hazy-eyed with waking, she might just be looking at it.

"What," she asks, squinting, "are you doing?" From the vantage point of lying on her side with half of her face buried in a pillow, Tarrant's sure, scarred hands are an indistinct blur in the early morning light. Moving, _always_ moving, whether to lift the lid of a teapot or to tug the sheets down the length of her body with tantalizing care.

Tarrant's eyes brighten to emerald as she rolls onto her back to get a better view of him. "Oh," he says conversationally, not even glancing down to follow the flash of the needle between his deft fingers, " _there_ you are. I had rather feared you lost to some sinister dream; you've been muttering under your breath about thimbles." He pauses, his left hand dipping to fish under her pillow. It emerges just as swiftly, little finger capped by the offending article. Tarrant grins ruefully. "I'd wondered where it had got off to, although I daresay it's ruined your sleep. And my _watching_ you sleep, no less."

"That's probably why you lost it," Alice chides him, propping herself up on one elbow. "What else have you mislaid in this bed that might come back to haunt me?"

Tarrant frowns, tucking the needle into the square of linen on which he's been embroidering Alice's portrait in tiny, even stitches. "Nothing sharp. I'm _extremely_ careful with pins and such. You ought not to have found any, but in the event that you _have_ , you may banish me from all activities of the stitching variety forthwith."

"That won't be necessary for now," Alice replies, reaching for the fabric. "Can I see?"

Tarrant folds the linen over on itself and tosses it on the bedside table. "It's not finished," he says, glaring at the thimble as he removes it from his pinkie, "and _you_ , good sir, are banished for having ruined Alice's modeling session." The thimble bounces off one of Mirana's heavy tapestries on the far side of the room. "Tools of the trade," mutters Tarrant, darkly. "They'll rue the day, the uppity things—"

Alice brings him around with a kiss on each wrist, savoring the feel of his vibrant pulse-points against her lips. The only thing better than watching those hands work is reminding them there's value in play. She's almost sorry the thimble is gone.

It's Tarrant's turn to blink hazily and Alice's turn to offer a crazy grin.

"Tell the needle that she'll just have to wait."


	8. Candle in the Window, Kiss Upon His Lips

Alice's earliest memory of the broken-down windmill is hazy, filtered through years spent believing the disconnected image part of a much larger sequence of dreams. She'd taken very little heed of the structure as a girl, preferring the hustle and bustle of the gaily set tea-table before her, although she'd been dimly aware of its window-lights gleaming eerie counterpoint to the gramophone in the background.

Upon her return to the scene—late, as ever, when she'd still half believed she was dreaming—the windmill had filled her vision, loomed larger than life. It might have had something to do with the fact that she'd been only two feet tall, and then two _inches_ if she'd been lucky, but it might also have had something to do with the precise state of disrepair. Surely it hadn't been _quite_ so ragged the first time around, so full of seething despair. Like all of Underland, it breathed. And wept, too, with doleful, flickering eyes. But Tarrant had risen then, and she'd looked at nothing else.

The windmill is dark now as they approach it in the gathering dusk.

"Did you bring a key?" asks Alice, glancing up the towering façade. She feels as if they're being watched, weighed and judged by some pensive, heavy spirit within.

"Gracious, no," Tarrant replies with a laugh, turning the badly rusted doorknob. "We saw no reason in bothering with locks, Thackery and Mally and myself. _Clocks_ , however, are another matter. Deceitful things! Alice, _do_ come inside. It's raining."

"Hardly," she murmurs, brushing pin-pricks of water from her bare arms, and follows him into the thick darkness. The scorched wooden door closes behind them with a dull, wary _thud_. For interminable seconds, there's nothing but the sound of Tarrant's breath and the hammering of her heart. The space smells damp with disuse.

"We've been gone too long," sighs Tarrant, mournfully, and strikes a match.

Where he's gotten the candle, she can't guess. From one of his myriad overladen pockets, no doubt, fished from a jumble of ribbons by fingers that have no need of light. In the flame's dim glow, she can see that they're standing in a drawing-room of sorts. A writing-desk stands against the far window, backed by wraithlike curtains. In another corner, there's a charred grandfather clock with a smashed-in face. She approaches it, unable to tear her eyes from the jagged glass, the too-still hands.

"Did she burn everything?" Alice whispers, reaching out to touch the few remaining gold-inlaid numbers. Beneath her fingertips, the clock seems to tremble: a misused, mistrustful soul. Tarrant's hand falls on her shoulder, as if to steer her away.

"Not _everything_ ," he says, his voice thick. "But a good _many_ things, yes. You'll find that the upper floors fared better. We threw all the teapots and put the fire out."

"I see," says Alice, quietly, and lets herself be led into the adjoining room.

"Kitchen," Tarrant says, proudly, as if giving a grand tour to royalty. The candle is burning stronger now, and Alice can make out shapes more clearly. Pot-bellied stove. Ornately tiled hearth, complete with roasting spit. Cast-iron kettle. Cauldron. Something that feels like eggshell crackles underfoot. Quizzical, she scuffs at it.

"This is where Thackery made our sweets," Tarrant explains, his tone soft and distant. "He doesn't always make a mess of it, you know. Left to himself, he's got nobody to throw things _at_ , and his love-affair with cookery is much more fruitful _indeed_. He once turned out four dozen scones in an hour, along with a baker's dozen in tea-cakes."

"They were awfully good tea-cakes," Alice says, brushing a droplet of wax from Tarrant's hand. Suddenly, his tiny, round burn scars aren't such a mystery.

"Yes," he sighs, coming back to himself. " _Well_. Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

The stairs creak and wince with each step, as if they, too, have grievances to air. Tarrant leads the way with near-silent footfalls, his cold hand motionless in Alice's own. They come to a square landing, where two more sets of stairs branch off on either side of a large bay window. They're at the back of the building now, Alice guesses; she's never seen this particular tableau from the outside. Tarrant stands frozen, his eyes drifting nervously from one set of stairs to the other, and then back again. They flicker doubtful salmon pink in the candlelight, crossed by shadows.

"Tarrant," Alice murmurs, gently taking the candle from him. "Which way?"

"Queast leads to Thackery's room, and then Mally's," Tarrant says hesitantly, as if struggling to remember. "For all my sins, Snud leads to mine."

"I should very much like to see your sins," Alice says, taking him by the arm.

She crosses the threshold alone, carrying the candle to the nearest window. She casts about for something, _anything_ to hold it up, finally settling on two heavy glass objects from the bedside table. What are they, she wonders, as she wedges them on either side of the guttering candle. Paperweights? Fabric-weights is more like it, she thinks, tracing the delicate spiral galaxy in the middle of one before moving to the starburst emblazoning the other. Where are Underland's glass-blowers? Did they survive?

"They were a gift," Tarrant says at her shoulder. "From Absolem's kin. All gone."

Alice turns to face him, too full of the house's pain—and _his_ —to bear it.

"We'll stay tonight," she says decisively, reaching to throw down the moth-eaten coverlet. Tarrant stares at her, his eyes luminous, a sad smile lingering at his lips.

"To what end," he asks, the words pitched low, "my Alice, my love? We've stayed away for good reason. There's naught to be had here but ghosts."

"Thackery lived," Alice points out, leading him to the bed. "Mally lived, too."

"I hadn't expected it would seem so little," he whispers, following. "Once we'd won."

" _You_ lived," Alice reminds him, crawling backwards onto the mattress. "I lived, too."

"True," Tarrant murmurs, looming above her. "We must be glad of small mercies."

"Don't dwell on it so," whispers Alice, reaching up to frame his face. "We're _here_."

The kiss is rough in spite of its tenderness, as if they've simultaneously decided upon the uselessness of talking. Alice takes Tarrant's full weight with an excited shiver, the cool air of his old room tickling her legs, now bare to the thigh, like a familiar caress. It's as if she's always been here, somewhere, waiting to emerge full-grown from the scarred woodwork, to fall gladly and be consumed, gasping, by candlelight. They don't even bother to undress. A few fumbled buttons, her knees drawn up by careworn hands, and he's _in_. Tarrant's bed-frame groans beneath the weight of it, as if their pleasure is an unaccustomed intrusion, at once too foreign and joyous to bear.

In the stillness afterward, Tarrant leaves her with a kiss on the forehead and returns bearing an armful of colorful scrap-blankets (like quilts, Alice marvels, only brighter, infinitely more whimsical) and several fresh candles. They strip down in silence, folding themselves together under the pile of dusty linens. Tarrant sings her to sleep, ancient ballads in a language she's struggling to learn. But learn it, she _will_.

Alice wakes, warm and alone, to the smell of fresh baked goods and the shattering of china. Below her, in the kitchen, an argument breaks out in vibrant Outlandish.

"We're home," she tells the house, willing her words to reach the sails far overhead.

And although she's not sure why, she believes that the windmill just might agree.


	9. From the Top

**1.**

In the Beginning—for all Beginnings deserve such distinction—Tarrant's hat had been just that. An elegant, well-made hat of modest standard: neither more, nor less. He'd spent hours tooling the pattern into the leather, a detail most people failed to notice unless they happened to stand close enough and squint. Or manage to get their hands on it, which almost never happened. Mirana had been one of the fortunate few.

"I _do_ hope it meets with your approval, Majesty," Tarrant lisped, fingers steepled, eyes downcast. "If it's too...er, _dark_ , as it were, what with the, ah, prevailing _theme_ , I might..." He'd trailed off, looking somewhat lost. "Is it...?"

"Fine," Mirana proclaimed, beaming down at him. She flipped the hat upside down in one smooth motion, peering inside. There were stars embroidered there, as if he expected one night it might serve as someone's sky. "It's worthy of you, Tarrant."

He beamed at her as she stood and placed it back upon his head, radiating sheer, joyous relief. "I'm so _very_ glad you like it, for that means you're all the more likely to like the latest one I've made _you_."

Mirana resumed her seat, palms pressed eagerly together. "Then shall we see it?"

Tarrant bent to open the hat-box that had been lurking at his feet. From folds of tissue paper the color of bleeding-hearts in spring, he drew an airy silver-white creation with netting all a-shimmer and a rose-colored silk band. Mirana weighed it in her hands as she'd weighed his own hat, turning it slowly to get a full view. The silk band was actually a scarf of some variety, merely twisted over and over upon itself in order to keep it in place. She'd never been fond of pink shades, however dusty. She picked at a bit of fringe, and the scarf began to unravel. Tarrant flinched.

"Majesty, if you _must_ —"

"Just a moment," she said sweetly, carefully untangling the scarf from the netting as she unwound it. She held it up, studying the blossoms embroidered at the ends.

Tarrant had gone a bit whiter than usual, his eyes flaring the pallor of winter sun.

"This color's too sweet for me," said Mirana, kindly, donning her hat. She rose again, holding the silk scarf at arms' length as she approached him. "As for this, I think you've misplaced it." She reached up and tied it in place, careful not to knock its new host off Tarrant's head in the process. " _There_. Brightens you up a bit!"

She led him by the elbow to one of the throne room's many full-length mirrors. He studied himself for long moments, lips twitching, as if he couldn't decide what to make of the addition. His eyes finally turned the color of spring.

"You'll be glad of it one day," Mirana said, releasing him. "Useful things, scarves."

"Yes," Tarrant murmured, hazarding a smile. "I suppose they are."

 

**2.**

Tarrant had gone with Alice— _not_ the wrong one, however Mally may have protested to the contrary, much to her own shame—riding the brim of his hat before she could shout exactly what she thought after him. How could he just _leave_ them like that? What if they were set upon in the forest, with no one to defend them? Foolish.

Furthermore, _who_ would clean up the mess they'd left, now that teatime was over?

Right Alice or not, the girl had little more sense than a turnip. She wouldn't know how to take strategic advantage of the view you got from the top—that is, if she even had the ability to climb up without falling, much less keep her balance. She wouldn't know the first thing about using hat-pins in self-defense, either. Even Tarrant, oversized as he was, knew how to do _that_. He'd taught Mally to throw with deadly aim.

What she would know, Mally was bitterly certain, was how to drape herself in the scarf's silken folds and let herself be lulled to sleep by Tarrant's voice as they rested beneath the shadowy trees. It was bad enough that her scrawny, pale body was already clothed in rags made regal by Tarrant's skilled hands. He'd queened her by placing her on that coveted perch. Even a foolish meddler like Chess knew its worth.

Worse yet, Tarrant seemed to know Alice's, and now set Mally's next to nothing.

 

**3.**

The trouble with throwing things was, they rarely hit their mark.

Mally, for instance. Bloody difficult to hit, the wee bugger. _Dormouse_. Never wanted to go in the teapot unless she put herself there. Ridiculous. _Tea_. She could drink it all before they did if she wanted. Anyway, he'd never hit her, but Tarrant had. _Jam_.

Yes, right, Tarrant. _Hatter_. Easy to hit, relatively speaking.

What you didn't want to hit, though, was his head. _Hat_. Anywhere else was fair game, as he seemed to set the rest of his clothing at very little price, would repair it or replace it happily enough, coat after shirt after tie, but the hat...

Wild anger. _Eyes_. Dark voice, swift hands. _Pins_.

Best not hit it. _Teapot_. Rap on the lid now, see who's home. _Ah_.

"Mally, lass—will y'not come out?"

" _No_!"

Right, then. _Scones_.

 

**4.**

Imogene had never wanted anything less than the best for Alice. She'd always fancied the girl would find herself one of those sensitive artistic types, perhaps a painter or a naturalist. That business with Hamish _had_ seemed rather silly. But it was behind them now, and she'd found herself an artist. Of sorts. And he _was_ rather sensitive.

Hats are, after all, the measure of a man.

Take Charles, for instance. He'd owned only two hats, both of them pragmatic and plain. Steady, Imogene had reassured her sister. Secure. Versatile when need be. He wasn't _really_ mad, much though everyone had affectionately claimed that he was. His hats had confirmed no madness, but they'd shown him for a good husband.

Lowell, now. That one's trouble. He doesn't own any hats at _all_.

And then, by contrast, there is Alice's Tarrant: maker of many, wearer of one. Just as mad as he looks, in other words, and just as fiercely loyal. Hats like that don't stray.

It's taken Imogene a while to steal this opportunity, not least because the hat almost never leaves Tarrant's head. In a fit of uncharacteristic carelessness, it's been left on the drawing-room table, its wearer long since lured to bed by a stockingless Alice. Imogene had been glad for their sakes that Helen had retired early. She turns the hat over in her hands, marveling at its burnt patches and delicate hints of gold thread.

Reverently, Imogene carries it up the stairs and sets it before the guest-room door.

 

**5.**

It's simple, really: you always want hats to be seated where they _fit_. The White Queen needs her glittering crown, and Tarrant needs his damaged-yet-debonair oddity. It's simply the way of things. Hats know where they belong, but sometimes they need help getting there—which requires evaporating skills. And, occasionally, claws.

Being impartial, Chessur steers well clear of placing judgements upon the wearer. No, he's strictly hat-wise: he knows the worth of headwear and the application thereof.

He expects only permission to sample the goods. For some, it's a _very_ high price.

 

**6.**

Alice slips from bed on feet lighter than a cat's, padding across the bare floorboards and over to the door. She hesitates for a moment, Tarrant notes, as if she fears she'll be discovered. Her skin glows rosy in the candlelight, still flushed, shadows slipping down the curve of her spine. She holds her breath as she turns the doorknob.

"I know I heard _something_." She opens it, tilting her head downward. "Wait, what—"

She bends to snatch something quickly inside, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

" _Oh_ ," Tarrant says, eyes widening as she places the hat on her head and turns, spinning on the balls of her feet like a dancer. "You don't suppose your mother..."

"No," Alice replies, grinning. She grasps the trailing ends of the scarf as if she means to toss them over her shoulder, and then thinks better of it, arranging the fabric over her breasts with mock-modesty. "It must have been my aunt. She reads all night by the fire. When I was a girl, she used to visit often. I'd sneak downstairs and sit beside her. She'd read to me." Alice frowns at the scarf-ends as they fall away, exposing her goose-pimpled flesh once more. "It was worth a try."

"For my part," Tarrant admits, drawing back the covers, "I'm glad it didn't work."

Alice runs to him, in need of no more bidding, holding the hat in place as she bounces onto the mattress. She shifts into his lap, pulling the sheet across her shoulders like a cloak. Tarrant tugs the scarf-ends free, arranging them neatly down the curve of her neck, the flash of her throat, the hum of her heart. She tilts her head, questioning.

"I'm glad of it now," he murmurs, leaning to kiss her. "Very glad _indeed_."


	10. Look at the Time

McTwisp had been sent in search of Tarrant, but he found Thackery instead. The tea service looked as if it had been recently washed—Mally's conscientious handiwork, no doubt—and the March Hare sat alone at the head of the table, nibbling on a petit-four in relative quiet. His ears twitched as McTwisp approached.

"Good day," said McTwisp, politely, hoping to set Thackery at ease. "Is Tarrant about?"

"Don'tell'im!" Thackery shouted, vanishing under the table. The petit-four landed crumb-side down on the crisp white tablecloth, leaving a smear of pink icing.

McTwisp sighed, taking a seat to the right of Tarrant's usual spot. "Of course not. I'm hardly out to set you on the wrong side of his temper. Your secret's safe with me."

Thackery's nose appeared above the edge of the table, twitching. " _No_."

"What do you mean?" McTwisp demanded, mildly offended. "Of course it is!"

"I mean," Thackery said, hopping back up on Tarrant's chair, "he's not about."

"Oh," McTwisp sighed, relieved. "Well, then. I suppose I'll have to look elsewhere."

"Have some tea?" Thackery ventured, pot already in hand. "Sugar?"

"Two, please," McTwisp said. "But I can't stay long. Her Majesty insists—"

" _Day off_ ," Thackery muttered, pouring McTwisp's tea with an unsteady paw.

"I beg your pardon?" McTwisp asked, sniffing in distaste as the sugar cubes' descent sent droplets of tea flying every which way. Mally would have a fit.

"With Alice," Thackery explained, handing McTwisp a piece of silverware. " _Fish-knife_."

"Oh dear," McTwisp murmured, using the inappropriate oddment to stir his tea.

"In London," said Thackery, as an afterthought. "In- _laws_."

"I thought Alice's father had passed on?"

"Bloody stuffed if I know," Thackery said, his mouth full of petit-four. "Cake?"

"No," sighed McTwisp, wearily sipping his tea. Since that whole mad business of Tarrant venturing Up Above in order to win Alice back had begun, it had become more and more difficult to pin him down (as full of pins as he _was_ ).

"S'been a long time," Thackery mused, dabbing his paw on a napkin.

McTwisp looked up. "Since what?"

"So much back-and-forth. Our world and hers. _Trouble_."

"Yes," McTwisp agreed. "It might be. However, Alice has proved she's as good at getting out of it as she is at getting _into_ it. And Tarrant isn't too shabby in a pinch."

"Down _here_ ," Thackery said. "What about up _there_?"

"I don't know," McTwisp said, swilling the dregs of his tea. The bits of leaf were beginning to settle. He rotated his cup in order to get a better look at the pattern. It resembled a question-mark. Thackery leaned in for a look.

" _Bollocks_ ," he muttered. " _My_ leaves have been sayin'—"

"Gracious, _look_ at the time," said McTwisp, consulting his watch. "I have to go."

Thackery said nothing, but sent the whole teapot sailing after him in farewell.


	11. The Next Best Thing

"Must you go?" Alice asks, peering upside-down at Tarrant. "We've only just arrived. Aunt Imogene will be extremely disappointed. She has a riddle for you."

Tarrant lowers the parchment he'd found tucked into his coat-pocket not a moment before, its snow-white ribbon and broken, blood-red seal trailing. From her vantage point splayed out on the bed, her head hanging over the mattress's edge, Alice imagines how it would have been if _all_ of Underland had been like this, with everyone going about their business with their feet where their heads ought to be. Tarrant's frown rights itself as he draws closer to her, dropping gracefully into a crouch.

"My dearest Alice," he says gravely, "I fear that I must. Although I haven't the slightest doubt that Her Majesty's method of delivery is, as ever, designed to permit the recipient some measure of agency in the choosing, _this_ recipient should very much like to be of assistance. Thackery has locked himself in the broom-cubpoard."

Alice groaned and crossed her arms. "Again?"

"Come now, this is only the fourth time," Tarrant reminds her, sweeping her hair up from where it had been skimming the carpet a second before. "The difference being, he's taken the entire tea service with him."

"It's only _one_ tea service," Alice mutters. "Mirana must have a dozen."

"Yes," Tarrant concedes, "but Mally is hardly capable of napping in all twelve at once."

Alice sits up, momentarily disoriented. "He's taken her _hostage_?"

"Quite without knowing, I'm sure of it," Tarrant says, rising to take a seat beside her.

"How long will you be gone?" Alice asks, reaching for his hand.

"As long as it takes," Tarrant replies, kissing her knuckles. "And a half."

"What's the half for?"

"Mally," says Tarrant, darkly.

"Can't she squeeze out? Why doesn't Nivens pick the lock?"

"All will be answered in due course. As will your aunt's riddle."

Alice leans forward until her forehead rests against his lips. 

"We were supposed to be on holiday," she sighs.

"And so we shall be, once I've sorted this out," Tarrant reassures her, his hands suddenly busy with what sounds like scissors. Alice glances down, curious, but the flurry of pale fingers and the glint of his needle prevent her from getting a good look.

"Poor substitute though this may be," Tarrant murmurs at length, folding something small, soft, and composed of various fascinating textures into Alice's hands, "I hope that it will, nonetheless, prove an adequate accomplice in my absence. Alice."

"It's..." Alice turns the tiny figure over, fingering its seed-pearl coat buttons. " _You_."

"I never did excel in self-portraiture. It's my best attempt, at any—"

Alice silences him with a kiss.

"Go," she says. "Before I change my mind."

" _Adieu_ ," whispers Tarrant, and is gone. The mirror in the corner stands trembling.

"Alone again," Alice says to the doll, tracing its upside-down frown.


	12. Traditions / Renditions

**Traditions**

"And I kiss you?" Tarrant asks, his brow furrowing. Judging by his expression, in fact, it's a downright tragedy. "Nothing more? Seems an awful waste of good greenery."

Alice feels her cheeks heat, not least because her mother, Imogene, and Margaret stand looking on. There's an air of quiet expectation, as if this, too, is a test.

"Yes, Tarrant," Alice says, drawing their hands together. "That's what mistletoe is _for_."

"We do it quite differently," he says in a low voice. "And it's another plant altogether."

"You'll have to show me later," whispers Alice, patiently. Whatever it is, she's sure it's worth the wait. "In the meantime, we've been caught dithering in the wrong doorway."

"As far as I can tell," Tarrant says, dipping her low, "it's absolutely the correct one."

Alice grins dizzily into the kiss, upside-down, her escaped hair brushing the floor.

**Renditions**

Tarrant pins the mistletoe to Alice's new bonnet, setting it proudly on her head.

"It looks exactly the same to me," Alice insists, studying her reflection in the mirror. She's quite naked, save for the hat. "You're _sure_ it's called Mistlefinger?"

"Quite positive," Tarrant says, pleased with himself, perched at the foot of the bed.

"I think you're having me on," Alice says, turning coquettishly. "Tormenting the hapless Upworlder. Tell me, whose idea was this one? Mally? Chess?"

Tarrant's lips twitch as he tugs her forward and into his lap, drawing the dangling ribbons forward over her shoulders. He's normally like this when caught in a lie, pinned between contrite and mischievous. Unfair, how well it suits him.

"Well, it was an awfully _clever_ jest, wasn't it?" he says with a wicked smile.

"At least this time nobody's watching," replies Alice, and tumbles him backwards.


End file.
